


My Salvation

by LaurylBerrington



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brain Damage, Dark, F/F, Hurt, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Romance, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25900981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurylBerrington/pseuds/LaurylBerrington
Summary: Life is all about the deciding moments – the seconds that either make or break you, or so they say. What's often forgotten is that after those moments, a long road follows. Brittany's journey has only just started. She's facing her feelings for her best friend and after one of those moments that try to tear you apart, she's also facing herself in a way she never thought she'd have to.
Relationships: Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Comments: 19
Kudos: 60





	1. Icarus

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to aStarLightFairy and QueenDiannaAgron for helping me out as beta-readers and discussing some ideas until I felt like it fit the story I want to tell. This is a very personal piece. I hope you'll enjoy going on this journey as much as I did while writing.

Her hands were shaking with nerves. She hoped that Santana wouldn't notice so she kept them hidden in her lap. Santana was looking on ahead anyway, focused on the road in front of her, brows furrowed in concentration. It was already past nine in the evening and usually, the girl hated driving in the dark. Not that anyone else would know that, obviously. Santana Lopez wasn't afraid of the dark, not unless it was only her and Brittany – then, then she'd be afraid of anything and everything all at once. She wouldn't have let Brittany take the bus back, though, and had instead insisted on giving her a ride. This was her best friend in the world, she would always drive them both home after one of their 'double dates' which they usually went on to earn a free dinner at BreadstiX.

She sighed. It was getting harder and harder to pretend that she found these dates with guys interesting or even fun. She just went along with it because it made Santana happy to get her breadsticks for free – and whatever made Santana happy, well, that was something she'd always go along with. Always. She was just glad that they hadn't had to make out with them or anything.

It was her little secret but whenever she had to, she just pictured her best friend in her mind instead. The rough feeling under her fingers, some guy's face, barely shaven sometimes, became her favourite soft skin. Short hair, no matter the colour became dark long locks wound around her fingers like a spiral. Careless slobbery kisses became those delicious lip locking moments that always had a tinge of cherry in them. It was more of a memory than a fantasy, anyway, having had the pleasure and privilege to be able to kiss Santana's lips dozens of times. In the beginning, instead of cherry, their kisses had always tasted of alcohol as they'd only make out while drunk.

But something changed during their sophomore year, and their make out sessions got considerably more regular and most often, found them both sober. Kissing and making out naturally progressed into more and more, leaving her with dozens of memories of Santana's bare skin clashing against hers in moments of heated passion.

Lost in thought, she stared out of the window, seeing the overhead lights flashing by, the houses and trees on the side of the road passing them in a blur. Her eyes were having trouble keeping anything fixed in her field of vision, and it felt like the same was happening with her thoughts which were equally flashing by in a blur.

Brittany let out a heavy sigh. "Are you alright, Britt?" Came the concerned inquiry by her best friend. She was always like that; looking out for her, and it made it so much more difficult not to fall ore in love with her. Not that she ever stood a chance, but she had tried. She had tried to fall in love with someone else, had dated and kissed and-

And it always came back to the same conclusion. She was in love. With her best friend, she was in love with Santana Lopez.

The radio was playing a song by a band she didn't recognise. Music was something she loved, too. Right in that moment, though, it was something that annoyed her, because it felt like those words and those voices were intruding on their intimate moment together. It was supposed to be just the two of them. Just Santana and Brittany. And maybe, it was meant for them to always be Santana-and-Brittany. At least, that's what she hoped.

"Yeah, sure," she mumbled. She was chewing on her lower lip, trying to find the courage which had somehow deserted her during the past ten minute ride in Santana's car. Well, it was actually her father's but Santana didn't like being reminded of that fact.

While they were sitting in the restaurant, Brittany hadn't been able to keep her eyes off the other girl. She was wearing a tightly fitted white dress that made her hair and tan skin stand out even more than usual. Santana could pull off almost any outfit, but this look had Brittany's heartbeat in an uproar. It was majestic, and she couldn't look away all night. It had honestly felt like a date to her, and if it hadn't been for those two football players interrupting with their guffaws and obnoxious attempts at conversation and flirting, she would have kissed Santana right there and then.

"You know you can tell me anything, right, Britt-Britt? You are the only one who doesn't get on my nerves and I will always listen to you," she said. Brittany could practically hear the smirk on her face right now without having to turn her head and look at her. What a way to make a girl feel special. She didn't dare looking at her best friend, though. If she looked, she would never be brave enough to put herself out there. Santana didn't get to play this off as a joke, Brittany decided. No way. This was it – time to go.

Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward and turned the radio off. This called for absolute silence. Brittany wanted to let her voice say it all, so that Santana could hear her heart talking. Letting herself fall back into her seat, she swallowed and closed her eyes.

"I am scared you'll hate me," she finally whispered after a moment of hesitation.

At that, Santana turned her head to look at her. She could feel her eyes on herself and it just made it harder to keep her breathing under control. Her palms were sweating and it all just made her very uncomfortable. When did being around Santana stop feeling nice, and become such a torture?

"Britt..."

Her eyes fluttered open. She turned her head to look at Santana. This was important. She couldn't screw this up. People usually told her she was not good with words but she was determined to get it right.

"No, listen," she interrupted harshly. "I know you don't want us to, like, talk about it. But I can't just- I can't- We need to talk about this, about- about it." Stuttering. She was getting into that dangerous territory where she'd get too frustrated to talk.

She took a moment to gather herself. She needed to sort her thoughts before it all came tumbling out.

Sex is not dating. That phrase haunted her night and day. She didn't want sex with Santana. Or well, she definitely did, it was usually the highlight of her day, no pun intended. But it was about more than just sex. It was about feelings. It was about how hard her heart started beating whenever Santana was near. About how her thoughts got even more difficult to follow than they already were on a normal day.

About how when she thought about her future, she only saw Santana. And she saw them being together, in love. Sharing a love like the songs and books talked about. The kind love poems were written about. (She had gotten into poetry, recently. It was usually very hard for her to follow words and understand meaning but when she read those poems and thought of Santana, she felt like she could finally read, for real. Like she could understand what all those words and rhymes were meant to mean. Because she felt it, too.) She wanted that, and she wanted it now. She was tired of waiting.

A stutter, "It? I don't know what you mean."

Santana had never been a very good actress. At least not with Brittany around she couldn't act to save her life. Brittany always saw right through her.

"What are we doing Santana?" she asked tiredly in a much softer tone. She had no energy left to play any guessing games, or any games at all.

"Brittany, you know I care a lot about you, right?" Santana was trying to look at her but had to turn her eyes back to the road as they were still in the car. Maybe that's why she didn't notice the way Brittany's jaw set, or the hard swallow that followed.

Nothing would have prepared for the next few words out of the blonde's mouth. It was now or never.

"I love you, Santana. Like, real love, you know? I am in love with you. I want to be with you. I don't care if we have to sneak around or hide what we have in school. I just want to be with you. I would do anything for you, Santana. Please give me a chance. Please give us a chance?"

By the end of her little speech, she was breathless. Her heartbeat was out of control and she could hear the rush of blood in her ears. Her nails burrowed into her palms, she waited.

It was only a second, maybe, until Santana turned her head to the right to lock eyes with her but it felt like hours. She could see how wide Santana's eyes were, how baffled she looked. She could also make out a faint flush on her cheeks which made her that much more beautiful.

It reminded her of a Santana without inhibitions, loving and living away with her when they were alone. It reminded her of the bashful blush that would rise onto her cheeks whenever Brittany told her how beautiful she was when they were in bed together, after she'd seen the girl she was in love with fall apart around her fingers and tongue. It really was a mesmerising sight.

"Britt-" she breathed into the air between them. Brittany could see it in her eyes, the way she was still doubting it. Still insecure about it.

Something only a few people knew, was that Santana did not feel worthy of love. Actually, maybe she was the only one apart from Santana herself to realise this. At her core, Santana was probably the most insecure person she knew. But she didn't care – she wanted her, and she'd show her how valuable she was. How precious she was to her and how all she wanted was to be with her.

"I love you, San," she repeated with a nervous smile.

Slowly, she could see how a small smile started to take form on Santana's face. It was a shy smile, still so very infused with her insecurities, but it was also an honest smile.

"Brittany-" she started, but whatever else she might have wanted to say – it never reached Brittany's ears.

Santana's eyes were impossibly wide, and she saw them shine brightly with the reflection of two balls of yellow that reminded her of the sun. Her gaze was burning into her like a flame. Suddenly, all she felt was a fire burning through her body. Was this what the sun felt like when you got too close?

An explosion went off around her, and it started raining shards of glass. Myriads of little pieces of melted sand buried into her skin. She could feel the blast in her ears; she could feel it like the bang of a drum being hit, only inside her head. The reverberation made her bones ache and her ears felt like someone had stabbed her with a little knife.

She had to close her eyes against the pain that was searing through her body. For a moment, she wondered if she'd gotten too close to Santana and that's why she was being consumed by flames, lapping at her skin, covering her up with pain. Maybe Santana was the sun and she was this guy they'd read about it class. Icarus or something. You never, ever should fly too close to suns. It just wasn't healthy.

Something cold was pressing painfully against her right side. With all her might, she forced her hand to reach there and when she made contact with the coldness, something hard, maybe metal, she began to feel her breath leaving her. Breathing wasn't supposed to be this hard, it should just flow. Why wasn't it flowing?

Flowing. Something was. Like a river – a warm, lovely river.

A thick warm liquid was running over her fingers. In the back of her head, she wondered if it was blood, maybe. This didn't feel too good. She heard ringing all around her and for a second, she tried to remember if Santana's car had an alarm and if that's the noise that wouldn't stop. She should tell Santana to make it stop.

With much difficulty, she managed to open her eyes. At first, nothing made sense. Was the world upside down? Where is up, where is down? There was a light shining on her, and there was a blurry figure sprawled across the seat on her side- Left, right? Right, left. The side that didn't feel like it had been melted by Icarus. Or maybe the side that was Icarus. Anyway, not that one, the other one. She blinked furiously, willing her eyes to focus.

A small figure, a woman. Tan skin.

Beautiful skin. She was sure that if she reached out to touch it, it would feel deliciously soft against her fingertips. Maybe, if she reached out, she could run her hands along those arms, and maybe she could reach that pretty bracelet hanging from her wrist. Bracelet? She recognised it. She looked harder at the woman, the girl.

Dark hair, elegant curls framing the most beautiful face she'd ever seen. So, so beautiful. If only she could see into those lovely brown eyes...

Brown eyes. Lovingly looking at her, like she always would look at her. A mixture of adoration and sweet patience. She really liked it when Santana looked at her like that and she loved how her eyes reminded her of melted chocolate. Santana's-

Santana!

It was Santana. The girl she loved more than anything, and she wasn't moving.

She had to get up. She had to help her.

Had she told her yet? She couldn't remember. She had promised herself she'd tell Santana. It was important. She'd even written it down on her to-do list which meant it was really super important. She was the most important person.

Did she love her too? Santana-and-Brittany, always?

She needed to get her out. Out of-

She couldn't remember. Where were they? Her head was pounding stronger than before, and she still couldn't take a proper breath. She felt dark hands grabbing at her from the edges of her vision. They were everywhere, no matter how often she shook her head to get rid of them. Grabby hands, but at least no hands were trying to get Santana. A small victory, but a relief nonetheless.

Everything around her was spinning, and she was the only constant. Why could the world not stop for a second so she could remember where she was? Why was it important to get Santana out?

Because she wasn't moving. So she had to get her out. Or something, but she definitely had to get to her. Yes. She needed to be closer.

"Santana!" she screamed, but she couldn't hear anything but a spluttering sound. Did she forget to put the earplugs out of her ears? Or did she have a slushie in her mouth that didn't let her talk. Or chewing gum. It was warm, and sticky. Not her usual flavour, either - it tasted like metal.

Had she licked metal? It didn't taste too good. It was also quite painful.

Her spluttering seemed to be effective though because soon enough, she could see Santana's eyelids flutter, followed by chocolate.

Furious blinking, and then she was looking at her.

Brittany tried to smile but it felt like her face had been split in two, so she didn't.

Santana's mouth was moving but she couldn't really hear anything. Maybe Santana had forgotten how to talk, or it was Brittany who had forgotten how to hear. She'd need to put that onto her to-do list so she would remember, next time.

It was getting harder to stay focused. Something was drawing her thoughts away and the pain wasn't helping any. Slowly, she let her body relax as best as she could and her head rolled back. Everything hurt.

Had she eaten some of the fiery shards? Something was cutting against her throat and lungs. The pressure was getting too much. It felt like a hug from one of these relatives you don't even like and they keep pressing you tighter, and tighter, until you can't breathe. And now, even trying to breathe in was like swallowing fire and glue. It was too sticky, too dense – covering her airways and closing them up.

Glue isn't supposed to go in there, she was pretty sure of that. She tried to spit it out, but the gurgling sensation that was the reward of her efforts just made her retch. She wanted to puke.

She felt hands clawing at her face. Instantly, she tried to pry them off of her, but she was too weak. Turning her head she looked directly into Santana's eyes. They looked like a feral animal's eyes. Wild, frantic.

Something wet fell onto her skin. A tear.

And something red was falling onto Santana's beautiful white dress. Drop after drop, ruining the pristine cloth. It painted a horrific picture, the red. Red was Santana's colour but this red was all wrong – wrong shade, wrong shape, wrong source. This would not do.

Santana was crying, and saying something, but it was too hard to connect sound and words and meaning. She was still gurgling and trying to retch. When her stomach contracted to retch, the pain became too much for her to bear. She was swallowing too much glue; soon, she'd be too sticky to breathe.

Santana had her pressed to her body, in a tight embrace, pulling her face to the side and downwards. It helped with the sticky feeling and she felt a little bit better. Maybe it was just because she was in her arms, she pondered. It usually made her feel better because she could breathe in Santana's scent and that made her the happiest.

Flashes of red and blue invaded the periphery of her vision; seems like the grabby hands had turned on some party lights. How festive. She'd have liked to join the fun, but she was feeling too tired for it.

So very tired.

She felt her body give in – give up – and she let herself sink into Santana. She felt her hands all over her, and if it wouldn't hurt so much, she'd smile. Instead, she tried to be as still and unmoving as possible. Every single inch she moved, hurt. Every breath she tried to take, hurt. Better not to.

Santana's soft and graceful fingers were at her throat, frantically looking, searching. What for? She already knew all the spots that made her leave her body when she kissed there. Right there.

Thinking about Santana's kisses felt so real. She could almost feel her lips on her forehead. Like a ghost, gracing her skin with her touch. That was such a nice thought, Brittany decided. She'd sleep and dream of that now.

So she did.


	2. Awakenings

The first thing, that was some sort of whirring. A dead, monotonous sound. It didn't have a lively rhythm at all. Disappointing. Most unpleasant in her ears and body. Still plunged in darkness, Brittany clung to this mechanical buzzing despite it all. There was nothing else to hold onto anyway. She felt the room – was it a room she was in? - spin on its axis. Everything was in rotation around her. No stopping, no way to get off the carousel just whisking her away. 'Round and 'round she went. Something told her she needed more. Something more concrete to hold onto before she'd be thrown out of the spinning ride, and where would that leave her? 'Round, and around again.

As she opened her eyes, everything was too bright but blurry – the kind of brightness that sends daggers through your eyes directly aimed at your brain. Do brains hurt? Can they? Hers did. Too much. Too painful. Eyes closed again, leaving behind a sticky feeling on her lids. She felt trails of wetness on her cheeks.

Trying to stay conscious, she focused on what exactly she was hearing next. Not too easy. She was so tired. Maybe sleep would... No. Sleep would be darkness again. No darkness, better to stay with the sounds. A high pitched ringing, some beeping. Sometimes, a high pitched alarm sound. That one hurt a lot, too. After a little while, she realised there was a pattern to the sounds. Rhythmical beeping, alarms every twenty beeps or so. The ringing, that one was background noise and always there. It seemed closer, too. It was inside her head.

Slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes again. She had to blink a dozen times before the blurriness got any better. It felt like rubbing sandpaper over the eyes. They felt twice their size as well. Squinting, the first thing she saw were some sorts of tiles overhead. The pattern was oddly comforting, and regular. The rectangles were organised. Pretty. Fluorescent lamps – not so pretty, way too strong to be allowed to be shining down on her. Where was she? She tried to raise herself up but couldn't. Why couldn't she?

Turning her head proved futile as well. It was as if her neck was fused to the surface she was on. Had she been glued to the ground? It was soft, that at least she could make out. A pillow? Trying to find a reason why she'd be on a pillow, she came up short and decided to spare herself the hassle. Thinking was too much work. If she couldn't move her head, what about her hands? Could she move those?

She tried, and she felt her own fingers twitch, but it wasn't exactly the kind of movement she'd wanted to make. Something was so, so wrong. What happened? A thousand thoughts flitted through her mind but she was struggling to keep hold onto any of them. It was just flashes going by, or maybe those came with the beeping? She didn't know anymore.

Again, she forced herself to remember how she got where she was but it all ended in a huge sense nothingness. She had no recollection whatsoever, of anything. "Where am I?" she decided to ask into the void around her. She was surrounded by bright light and sounds only, but maybe there were people. Maybe she wasn't all alone. Hopefully, please. The sound she made was foreign even to her own ears and when she tried to speak, she felt like it wasn't _her_ mouth that moved. Her mouth was different. It usually worked better than whatever this was. What she did feel was pain, and what she heard was a grunting noise. Barely an exhale, really. Could have gone better, that one.

Some sort of scraping. Metal scratching over a surface - the floor, perhaps. It felt like something was scratching at the her ears, deep inside, as if Lord Tubbington had found a way to set his claws into her ear canal. She felt something shift within them, like a pull to her eardrum, making it taut and tense. It set her on edge.

"Oh my god! Brittany? Britt? Are you awake?" If she could, she would have startled at the unexpected voice. It was difficult making out the words and assigning meaning to them. It was all too much. Step back. Think. The voice, first. A person talking.

She knew that voice. It was the voice that filled her dreams and days. It was the voice that filled her heart. Was she awake? That had been the question directed to her. Probably, she decided. She wanted to tell her that yes, she was awake, but only more gasping resulted.

Suddenly, brown eyes were in front of her and had mercy on her. The fluorescent lamps, eclipsed by a familiar face. A delicate, gorgeous face. Most of all, familiar – making it even more beautiful to Brittany. Lush, dark curls. The eyes were her chocolate eyes. Melted delicious sweetness, unadulterated love. There were bags underneath, though. Not important. For the first time since Brittany woke up, she felt somewhat at ease. The pain was still hammering away in her head, and she was still unable to form more than one coherent thought at a time, but that didn't matter, either. She was not alone.

She'd have cried, if she could have. She'd have grabbed the girl and hugged her. She wanted to feel her close to her, so damn much, but she was also so very exhausted. It was as if her energy had been sapped by the few attempts at moving she'd undertaken. She focused her eyes on the girl – Santana - slowly and deliberately. Her eyes still were covered by frosted glass or some other stuff. It was more blurry than usual, definitely. There was something she was supposed to do, supposed to say. It was so hard to remember, to think.

"Britt, it's me. Santana. I'm here, okay? Don't be afraid, I am here," the girl above her said in a pleading tone. Brittany was confused. Why would she be afraid? She wasn't much anything, to be frank. She couldn't remember how she got there. What was she supposed to feel? She willed herself to blink, slowly, at Santana. Wetness spilled from the corners of her eyes, and it burned so badly that she had to temporarily close them again. When she gazed back at Santana, she saw how the girl was frowning at her, the space above her nose scrunched in worry.

"Santana," she tried to speak, again, but the only thing she managed to get out was a groan. Beyond frustrating, that's what it was. Confusing, also. She knew the words, the name. It was a really beautiful name, too. It shouldn't be this hard to just say it, should it?

In response, Santana's eyes welled up with tears. Tears she didn't seem to allow herself to shed. A hand came into view, and she felt it a second later on her cheek, softly caressing her. It was warm but unpleasant. The pressure on her cheek made her feel like her face had shifted out of place. Brittany had to clench her eyes shut at the sharp electricity that coursed through her skull at the contact. Something was very wrong with her face but she couldn't quite fathom what it was. A painful whimper escaped through her lips.

Santana panicked and instantly removed her hand. She stuttered, "Are you alright? I, I- I should go get the doctor."

Please don't go, please don't go. Brittany forced herself to open her eyes again as she felt them fill with stinging liquid. Hoping that Santana would understand her silent pleas.

She never found out if her internal begging was heard as soon, darkness engulfed her again, and she fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

The next time she woke, everything around her was the same. Same whirring noises, same lights shining down on her. Same antiseptic smell, and the faint tinge of new plastic. So that hadn't been a dream, apparently.

That meant – Santana, she hadn't been a dream either! Brittany tried to look around her in search of the dark-haired girl. Unlike last time, she didn't have as hard a time moving her head, making the task a little bit easier to accomplish. There was someone sitting in a chair by the side of her bed. She was in a bed, and everything looked like a hospital room.

Hospital, then. That's where she was. Why she was there, she couldn't say. Maybe she'd fallen during some Cheerio routine? She just hoped she hadn't stumbled over Tubbs again. The last time, she'd gotten an ugly gash all across her forearm.

Looking down at herself, she saw that her arms were bandaged and there was some sort of tube sticking out. It didn't make any sense. Nothing did. Glancing back to the figure in the chair, she recognised the close-cropped dirty blonde hair. Her dad!

She moved her hand, trying to reach out to him. "Brittany! Honey, you're awake! How are you feeling?" he asked when he noticed her moving.

She didn't really have an answer to his question – her head was about to spill over from the amount of questions _she_ had, after all. "Mhm..." she mumbled. Speaking was also strangely difficult and she didn't quite know how to make the sounds she wanted. Frustrated, she decided to forego speaking and just shook her head.

"Oh, sweetie. Can you hear me?" he asked tentatively. She nodded, slowly. Sudden movements sent a sharp pain through her head, so she tried to avoid that as best as she could.

"Good, great. You are doing great, my dear. I'll, uh- I'll just go get the doctor and your mom, alright? Try and stay awake, I'll be right back!"

She did as she was told, and soon enough, she saw a middle-aged man in a white coat along with her parents. It put her at ease, knowing both of them were there.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Campbell, and I'd like to do some tests and ask you some questions. Just try your best, okay? There's no rush, and there's no pressure," the doctor said. His voice was kind and he immediately seemed trustworthy to Brittany. She nodded.

She did her best – she really did - but if you asked her what the doctor had asked her about a couple of hours later, she wouldn't be able to tell you. She hadn't said a single word, either.

* * *

" _You were in a car accident, Brittany."_

The next few hours – or was it days? Flew by in a flurry, and she couldn't quite figure out how to keep a grasp of things.

" _You were in a very serious condition when you were brought to the hospital. You had to be intubated on scene."_

Every day, there was a barrage of tests, every day, she felt like she'd just failed. She felt like everything was just passing her by and it was the most confusing situation she'd ever experienced.

" _The impact caused your skull to fracture and you suffered severe head trauma which caused a traumatic brain bleed. We had to operate to relieve the pressure on the brain. The symptoms you're experiencing are normal, and you have been showing some remarkable progress, Brittany."_

People came in, people left again. Nurses, doctors. Her parents. Santana.

" _You were placed in an artificial coma after your surgery, and you were in a coma for 11 days."_

She'd met what they called a speech therapist, and another was a physiotherapist and then some more, all kinds of things that ended on -therapist, but she was still merely passing the time until she could get out of the hospital. Every day left her more exhausted than the last. She'd never been in so much pain in all her life. Her head still hurt, her chest hurt. Her first attempts at moving her body had been excruciating.

" _You suffered from severe trauma to the chest as well. You sustained several broken ribs, and you were bleeding internally. Your lung collapsed. That's why you had a lot of difficulty breathing. We had to place a chest tube to help drain the blood."_

She managed to retain some scraps of the conversations, but it was hard to derive any meaning from it. What she remembered most was the faces. Her mother's expression when she tried not to cry. There were quite a few times she didn't succeed. The pained smile her father wore these days. He was always smiling at her, praising her for every little thing.

" _It's difficult to estimate the recovery process, as it's very variable development. It's important to give it time. We expect you to make some substantial progress over the next six months. It's usually when most of the recovery happens. We will be able to evaluate the extent of the damage better by then."_

Santana's eyes. Almost always glassy, almost always watching her intensely. As if Brittany would disappear into thin air the moment she looked away.

* * *

After a couple of days, a week, then two, almost three: she had made a lot of progress. Her speech therapist was exceedingly happy with her performance. She was forming sentences and she was getting better and better at voicing out the words.

* * *

In other ways, she'd made no progress at all.

* * *

"Please, turn it off. Turn it off!" she begged. Santana was looking around in a panic, not knowing how to act or what to say. Brittany was clawing at the barely healed sutures on her head and she was afraid she'd manage to tear them back apart with the force of her scratching.

"Do you want me to get a nurse? Or a doctor?" she asked helplessly.

Brittany didn't answer and just started rocking on the bed, her hands on both temples, as if she were trying to hold her skull together. Maybe, in a way, she was. The buzzing, there had to be a way to get it out of her.

"Please, turn it off," she sobbed miserably. It was heart-breaking to see and Santana's eyes were also shining with tears – albeit hers remained unshed.

* * *

At three weeks, her physiotherapist had her shuffling up to the nurse's station with a walker, looking at her with pride. She had graduated from the wheelchair the week before. They all agreed, she was rocking this recovery!

At least, that's what everyone told her. She still needed help with the most basic things. Combing her hair on her own had proven an impossibility. The first time she'd seen herself in the mirror, she had cried. They'd shaven away the hair to operate on her brain, and a huge line of stitches had adorned the top of her head.

She couldn't really remember how to tie her shoelaces.

When asked if her friends could visit her, she'd said no. She didn't want anyone to see her like that. She didn't want any visitors, apart from her mom, her dad – and Santana.

* * *

Her parents were there, as well as a doctor. They were talking about possible rehab facilities for her. It was a good plan, having her in some in-patient rehab hospital, they agreed.

She didn't really care anymore. Every day was just another one she existed – another one to cross off the list. It had been weeks of meaningless days turning into even worse nights. Nights reminded her of the nothingness. It was all so tiring.

Once there was a lull in the conversation, she cleared her throat. It was only then that the other three people in the room seemed to realise she was still right there, sitting on the bed, looking quite lost in her now over-sized sweatpants and shirt. She'd lost quite a bit of weight over the past weeks. Just another thing she lost. She just kept losing.

"Where's Santana?" she finally asked the question she'd wanted to ask since the doctor came in.

It was her mother who replied, "Santana's at school, sweetie."

This made Brittany quite sad. She had expected to be able to see her best friend and talk to her. She could remember seeing her before, so why did she leave? "But- she was just here, like, an hour ago? We went to the cafeteria," she said, confused.

Her mother let out a little nervous laugh and scratched her neck, her gaze burning into Brittany.

"Brittany, she was here _yesterday_. But, don't worry, alright? I am sure she will come by later today. She visits every day," her father told her in what was supposed to be a soothing voice. It sounded pressed. Forced out.

Brittany nodded. That would work. As long as Santana visited, she'd be happy. She really missed her. Where had she gone, anyway? She decided to find out: "Where is Santana then? If she's not here, dad?"

She noticed how her mother and father exchanged a look, but she couldn't read it. They both looked quite worried, and her mother had her brows furrowed. It's become such a familiar sight, them being all frowny and wrinkly and it didn't feel very nice, to be looked at like that. It was getting old pretty quickly. With a small cough, Pierce Pierce cleared his throat. "At school, sweetie," he said.

Brittany blinked slowly. "Oh, okay."


	3. Tangled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to my lovely betas aStarLightFairy and QueenDiannaAgron! I also want to thank soonbuilt who gave me permission to use this wonderful doodle of Brittana for my fic. :) 

"I can't-," she started, a little pause. It was almost as if she'd been running laps for Cheerios practice, the exertion leaving her breathless. "Can't do it," she sighed, dejectedly. She'd been trying for the past half hour or so - it was hard to keep track of time - but her muscles were burning with exhaustion and she had come no closer to being able to move both her legs without losing her rhythm and almost falling down to the floor after just a handful of steps. It was more of a shuffle than a stride, really. These were the first attempts without the walker to hold up most of her body weight, and it was not going too well. Thankfully, her physiotherapist had been there every step of the way, quite literally.

She felt her resolve crumble. Brittany had been a dancer by nature, and now, she couldn't even get her feet to work properly without making a mess of things. Everyone had such high hopes regarding her so-called recovery, but no one seemed to see that before it's possible to recover anything, you need to accept that you had lost something in the first place.

You had to accept, and remember what it was you'd lost, first. That was the most difficult part – remembering what was the normal before, and then the normal _after_ ; the new normal, so to speak. Sometimes, it was all muddled together and left her confused. Mostly angry, though. Some days, her whole body was shaking with anger.

Sitting on a chair in the middle of her hospital room, she just wanted to go back to bed and sleep the day away. It wasn't like anything good would come out of today, anyway. Every day was like the one before, a never-ending series of treatments, therapies and the reminder that she just wasn't the old Brittany anymore. She was- whatever. Something, someone; a none-Brittany person. She crossed her arms and huffed.

"I know this is frustrating, Brittany, but it's important that you keep trying. We need you to use those muscles, alright? Come on," the therapist said, trying to sound empathetic.

Brittany turned to him and studied his face. As far as she could tell, there was no fake sympathy there, just a small hint of sincere concern. At least that's what she thought the set jaw might mean. Well, that was better than the alternative, she knew.

She hated the way some nurses looked at her, and her parents; like she was some kind of small injured animal baby, helpless and broken. A little bird with clipped wings, unable to fly, forever cursed to be different to all the others. As if she'd stopped being her own person, somehow. At least this man was not treating her like that.

She sighed heavily. It was no use; she couldn't run away from this anyway. She smiled a little – a forced smile, more of a grimace – but nodded. She wouldn't give up yet. She owed it to her family to keep trying, because they kept trying, too, and they hadn't given up on her yet, either.

With his help, she stood and put one foot in front of the other. Slowly, head bowed, her gaze fixed onto her legs. She could see her muscles and tendons working to keep her upright."You're doing great. Just a few more steps and I'll leave you alone for today," he told her.

Lifting her right leg, she took a step forward before trying to pull the left one up. She could hardly support her own weight. Planting both feet on the ground, she felt it; her hard limit. Her own body telling her that this was the end of the line for today. The sign that she'd pushed _just_ a little bit too far.

She felt her legs start shaking with exhaustion and she shook her head. "No more, no more," she begged in a small voice, her breath coming out in short bursts. The therapist looked at her for a moment, calculating. Then, the shaking got even worse and he had to intervene quickly before she fell, setting her back down into the chair.

Her legs were still shaking, making her whole body rock with exhaustion.

"Alright, you're done for today. I am really proud of you, Brittany. We'll work our way up, alright?" The physiotherapist was looking at her with a smile, as if they were talking about some fun activity they would tackle together.

As if it didn't serve as a reminder of just how little she could do, and how much she'd lost. She'd become a ghost of herself, she thought. And not one of the cool ones that haunted mansions – no, one of those that got stuck in the most unfortunate places. Like that Myrtle girl in Harry Potter that had gotten stuck in a toilet. Real classy.

Brittany stared straight ahead at the wall, not even bothering to answer. She wondered how many interrupted lives these walls had witnessed. Lives that were suddenly put on hold; others cut off, right in the middle, out of nowhere. Sometimes she wondered what stories they'd have to tell, these walls. Silent observers, harbouring the broken in their encasement. The broken – like her: broken bones, broken brains –

Fractured souls.

Jammed in the space between life and death; not quite belonging to either realm. Merely clinging to a trick of light: hope. These souls. Bold, and so, so brave, but most of all, terribly lonely.

Maybe, if these walls could talk, she would find out that she'd been lucky after all. Perhaps, though, she'd been one of the unlucky ones, for clinging on. She was not quite sure what answer to wish for.

All she knew was that now, in that moment, she was here, and no place else. Stuck, in every sense of the word; stuck in her head, stuck in her body – and stuck in this godforsaken hospital room.

Her musings were interrupted when the man started talking again: "If it isn't Brittany's favourite person _ever_? Oh, and you have perfect timing! We've just finished our session. Come on in!" His voice sounded genuinely happy.

Brittany didn't react at all. She'd been lost in her thoughts, but the rude interruption had made her lose her train of thought. She did not want to see anybody. She just wanted to sleep. She curled in on herself, trying to make her body as small as possible in the chair.

"Favourite? I don't know about that," a female voice said, politely. That _did_ make Brittany turn around as best as she could, making an awkward half-spin in the chair, still unbalanced and clumsy.

"Santana!" she exclaimed, her spirits lifting from one second to the next. Seeing her best friend usually had that effect. Maybe the therapist was onto something there, with his remark.

* * *

They had ended up on Brittany's hospital bed, Santana and the therapist basically hauling her up the mattress. The therapy session had been too tiring for Brittany, so they'd decided against going anywhere else. Brittany preferred it that way – this way, she wouldn't have to go and face all the people in the cafeteria or in the park on the hospital grounds with their loud noise and the cacophony of voices all coming together to bash her skull in, and she wouldn't have to let Santana do all the work, wheeling her around. They had been to the park the day before, or the day before that. Anyway, she couldn't remember exactly, the days still bleeding into another with little distinction.

Santana was sitting behind her, combing through her hair. Brittany still had trouble figuring it out on her own and while that usually made her burn up with shame, it was somehow okay to let Santana do it. When she did it, it was a soothing and comforting gesture. It did help that Santana had to sit close to her to reach the hair, and Brittany would never object to that.

She was so close that she felt Santana's scent engulf her senses; her warmth was like a secure blanket shielding her from harm. Brittany felt herself relax into her friend, and she had trouble keeping her eyes open.

"They asked about you in Glee club today, Britt," Santana informed her, pulling her out of her half-asleep state. Brittany couldn't figure out if she meant it as a good thing or not. What was she supposed to do with that information?

She did miss her friends, but she was also glad that she didn't have to see them sing and dance, and be all happy and healthy and _themselves_. Not knowing what to say, she settled on letting out a soft sigh. "Oh."

"They miss you, you know? _I_ miss you. It's not the same without you," Santana whispered into her ear, making her shiver involuntarily.

"Yeah," she said, shrugging it off.

Seemingly sensing Brittany's reluctance to discuss this particular topic, Santana changed the subject. "I saw this huge rainbow this morning, on my way to school, and it reminded me of you," she tried.

That caught Brittany's attention. "Why?" she asked.

"Well, you love rainbows. And it was really beautiful – like, like- uh" Santana stammered. She was uncharacteristically trailing off in the middle of the sentence, but with her back to her, not even seeing Santana's expression, Brittany didn't question it. Maybe, she hadn't even really registered it at all.

"I love rainbows," she slowly said instead and nodded her head up and down with a far-away look on her face. It appeared as if she wanted to say something else, but after a moment of hesitation, she didn't. The thought had passed too quickly to process anyway.

Running the brush through her blonde hair gently, Santana smiled. "Yeah, you do." Her smile quickly turned into a frown when she noticed the way Brittany's shoulders had dropped.

"Britt, are you okay?" she asked, concerned. She waited for a moment but when Brittany didn't answer, she put the brush aside and scooted over to sit beside her, so she'd be able to look at her and see her face.

The blonde was scrunching up her face really hard. It looked as if a million ideas were passing through her head and she was trying her best to sort through every single one of them. An exercise in futility, seeing how every flash of insight was lost quickly, like sand trickling through her fingers.

"Britt?" she repeated her question, slightly alarmed. While it wasn't unusual for Brittany to drift away, this wasn't her normal behaviour when talking to her friend. Santana put a hand on Brittany's forearm. It was only then that Brittany seemed to come back to herself, blinking furiously.

"Yeah?" she asked, confused.

Brown eyes darted from side to side, but blue eyes just gazed back noncommittally. She was probably trying to find answers on her face, Brittany mused. If only she had any; she struggled terribly to remember the questions in the first place. Santana cleared her throat awkwardly. "I asked if you were okay," she repeated.

Brittany furrowed her eyebrows and it took a moment before she responded. It seemed like she had to think about the question really hard before coming up with a response. "No," she finally said, pressed.

This wasn't what she was expecting, judging by the way her eyebrows lifted of their own accord, but the blonde couldn't muster up the energy to wonder about it too much. Taking Brittany's hands into her own – as if it could somehow anchor her to the conversation like a boat to the bottom of a lake; a safeguard against the currents of her whirling thoughts– Santana seemed undeterred.

"Want to tell me about it?"

For a moment, Brittany debated whether she should just say no and be done with it, sparing herself the ordeal, but when she locked eyes with Santana, she knew she couldn't. The girl was looking at her with so much warmth and concern. It made her feel all tingly.

"I think-" she started, and then shook her head carefully, not wanting to upset her still very vulnerable balance with brisk movements. She also still had trouble forming sentences if she didn't think it through beforehand. She tried again: "I'm- I'm sad. Really sad, San."

Santana nodded. When she noticed that the blonde wasn't going to say anything else unprompted, she asked, gently, "Why are you sad, Britt-Britt?"

"I'm just sad. The thoughts are all jumbled," she muttered, her words sounding somewhat twisted. Without being consciously aware of it, Brittany's right hand shot up to her hair, right to where her new scar was, and she started scratching her scalp there. Her hair was growing out slowly, but it would still be a good while until the scar would be hidden away by a curtain of her blonde hair.

"It's all jumbled. It's bad. Like when Lord Tub-bing-ton finds a ball of, of-" A small pause before she went on, more hesitant this time, "Of-" Further head scratching, frustration building up in her. "Of yarn to play with," she continued with furrowed eyebrows; her hands making an unsteady sweeping gesture.

Santana nodded, a sad expression etched onto her face. In that moment, she looked tired and exhausted as well. Almost like she didn't know what to say, her voice was shy and low when she talked. "I know, Britt. I know it's hard. You are working so hard, and it sucks. I just want you to know that I will always do my best to help you untangle it. Always. Pinky promise." She held out the pinky on her left hand, like she'd done a hundred times before.

The smile that formed on Brittany's face was the brightest one that had been there in days. Linking their pinkies together, she sighed contently and laid back into Santana. "I'm tired. Can I take a nap?" she asked with a yawn.

"Of course you can, Britt. I'll be here when you wake up."

Brittany felt the soft touch of Santana's fingers running through her hair again in a soothing gesture meant to help her sleep. It usually worked like a charm. There was no one else in the whole world that knew her as well as Santana did. In her arms, she felt protected and safe and she allowed herself to let the sleepiness wash over her like a wave, putting up no resistance whatsoever.

"Thank you," she mumbled almost incomprehensibly.

Then, she felt a set of soft, warm lips pressing against her cheek – and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

The next days passed in a similar fashion to the ones that came before. While she had still issues remembering the content of most conversations, she managed to recall what Santana had said about Glee club. How they missed her. And she missed them, too. And school. She missed it all.

In a way, that gave Brittany strength to carry on, despite various times where she just wanted to give up, give in and never move again. She still went to speech therapy, she did all the exercises and practised in her room with the charts she'd been given. She noticed how much progress she was making, and it was the first time she sensed something akin to accomplishment.

* * *

There was a short knock on her door before it opened, a woman peeking her head in.

"Hello Brittany! It's time for our breathing exercises right now, okay?" the language and speech therapist announced cheerfully as she entered the room, making her way to her bed.

Brittany herself looked not nearly half as cheerful, but it's not like anyone really asked her if she felt like doing the work anyway. She just had to. "Yeah," she mumbled.

The therapist, a woman in her mid-thirties, had a very kind voice. She spoke calmly, which made the sound of her voice quite pleasing and bearable to the blonde. It was probably on purpose, Brittany mused.

"So, you remember last time where we did the mirror exercises to improve the way it sounds when you talk? So you could watch your lips and practise how to make your words sound clearer?"

Nodding her head up and down, she spoke, "I remember." She remembered how the therapist had also made her do a straw exercise to train her coordination between her lips, cheeks and tongue. How hard could it be? She'd thought before. It turned out – very hard. It irked her how everything was hard these days: talking, walking, even breathing. Most of all, thinking.

"Great! Well, I noticed that you have a bit of an issue with your breathing there. That's why today, we are going to work on it, okay? It's just that when you are talking, you are focusing really, really hard on the words. You are doing great, by the way. Your parents told me you've been talking a lot to them and your friend. I'm really happy to hear that," she said with a bright smile.

"It's just that sometimes, when you are working so hard on your words, you forget to breathe, right? You kind of hold your breath and keep trying to get the words out, and you get a bit tense here," she explained, carefully touching Brittany's throat. "That's what we want to avoid."

Another nod, agreeing. Brittany knew she wasn't talking very well yet. People around her pretended not to notice and she really loved them for it, but she _knew_. She could hear herself after all, sadly not given the mercy of blissful ignorance. It was always difficult for her to actually get the words she had in her head out in the open. Usually, it made her feel like an anvil had been placed on her chest, the weight crushing every word before it could make its way out of her throat and onto her tongue. The few words that managed to escape didn't do so without any harm and ended up being all squashed and bruised when they finally spilled from her mouth. Only fitting, really – bruised and banged up like Brittany herself had been.

Some days, it felt like a race; how many words could she help escape the confines of her throat before she had to give up and let the rest get lost somewhere in the space between her inspirations?

"Today, we're going to be learning how you can allocate your breath correctly, where and when to pause and how to relax your vocal chords a bit. We want to be breathing from the belly. This way, you'll be able to form longer sentences without feeling too tired, okay?"

"Okay," Brittany agreed. Despite how tired she felt, she was actually looking forward to doing the work. She'd do it all if it meant that she'd be able to talk more and better. She wanted to be better for when she felt ready to tell Santana.

* * *

Her occupational sessions weren't half bad, either. She liked the activities, and it gave her something to do. They hadn't really tackled writing yet, but she was still re-learning pretty useful things. The first time she'd managed to tie her shoes completely on her own, she had felt on top of the world. It might not have looked pretty and had come undone soon after, but at least it had been _her_ shaky hands completing the movements.

It was during those moments where she dared to let herself believe that perhaps, not all was lost. Or, if it was, maybe she would find it again, in time. Perhaps it was just misplaced.

* * *

"I'm really good at scissoring, San," Brittany said with a proud smile, showing off all her teeth.

Santana almost spit out the mango juice she'd been drinking. It had been Brittany's but she didn't like mango as much as she liked coconut, so Santana had brought her some coconut water in a bottle and drank the offending juice instead.

A deep blush rose up on Santana's cheeks but the blonde seemed none the wiser.

Happily, she kept talking, "At first, when I tried to cut a straight line it would get all horrible. All wonky. But this week, I did much better. Mrs. Charleston said I'm picking it up really well." Her words sounded clipped but she wasn't swallowing more than half the vowels anymore.

Still trying to get her embarrassment in check, the other girl cleared her throat. "I'm really proud of you, Britt. You've been so amazing," she told her. Carefully, she set the juice carton down and bent forward to leave a little peck on Brittany's left cheek.

It was a bit sticky – probably from the mango juice – but Brittany didn't mind at all. The little gesture left her heart racing in all the good ways, and she felt the butterflies in her stomach doing somersaults.

* * *

Physical therapy, unfortunately, was going much slower than that. Given her talent in dancing, she had expected it to be much easier or at least hoped. It frustrated her to no end but knowing that every now and then, Santana would ask about her progress, she clenched her teeth and kept trying her best.

A small voice in the back of her head, the one that kept asking, 'What if my best isn't good enough?' - that was her worst enemy. Sometimes, she tried to drown it out - her insecurities - blasting music at the highest levels her earphones would go, but that quickly proved to be a massive failure as it made her head throb for hours, and her ears ring like a busy telephone line. She wasn't supposed to expose herself to loud noises, and she paid a steep price whenever she did.

* * *

It was probably a Saturday, or a Sunday, though Brittany couldn't be quite sure. Santana was visiting. She was reading a book for school and Brittany was bored out of her mind. Not that having Santana keeping her company could ever bore her, it was just that _she_ had nothing to do; apart from staring at Santana covertly, hoping that the girl wouldn't notice. She was just too beautiful and Brittany's feelings for her best friend were as strong as ever. Stronger, even.

Right now, she had to let her read. Santana would have ditched the book in an instant if she asked, she was certain, but she was already feeling bad for monopolising so much of her time already.

It was quiet – too quiet, and Brittany was increasingly feeling restless. After a few more minutes, she couldn't bear it anymore.

"Do you hear it?" she asked, annoyed. The buzzing, humming background noise that accompanied her day and night was getting on her nerves.

The black-haired girl looked up, surprised, clearly not understanding. "Do I hear what?" she asked to clarify, closing her book.

"The radio. It won't stop. It's making humming noises." She imitated some humming, feeling the vibration along her jaw as she did. It felt like her bones were itching from the inside.

Following Santana's gaze as she looked around the room, both came to the same conclusion at the same moment. There was obviously no radio there.

Their eyes met.

"No, I don't hear anything," Santana added, unhelpfully, with a small apologetic smile. It was one reserved specifically for her. She'd have ripped anybody else a new one for asking such a ridiculous question.

"Right," Brittany said, sheepishly.

She clumsily turned around in the bed and cuddled into her pillow, her back to Santana. She didn't want to see whatever pity or sadness she was sure to find in her eyes. She couldn't bear more humiliation like that; not from Santana, she couldn't.

She heard some paper rustling, probably from Santana picking her book back up, but no further comment reached her ears. It was for the best, she told herself. Tears pricked at her eyes but she squeezed them closed as hard as she could, determined not to let a single drop spill over.

* * *

It was a few days later that she finally had a visitor different from Santana or her parents: Quinn Fabray, the last third of the infamous Unholy Trinity. It had been her mother's idea. Apparently, Quinn had been phoning her parents every couple of days, asking for updates, and if it would be possible to come visit. Brittany had finally relented, feeling that if there was anyone from school she would like to see, it might be Quinn.

The only other person she liked even half as much was Mike Chang, and she was a hundred percent certain that she did not want to see _him_. It might not be fair to him, but she really couldn't face _that_ yet. What it all meant.

"You know, Rachel wanted to come and visit, too, until Santana threatened her, of course. Something about her shrill voice being a risk to your delicate ears; a vicious attack on your well-being. It became this huge fight between them. Santana was super pissed. You know what they are like," Quinn told her, with a smirk.

A small smile blossomed on Brittany's face. Of course she knew about Santana's protectiveness when it came to her. Secretly, it was one of her favourite things in the whole world. It made her feel so safe, so cared for. Although, mind you, sometimes, she did go a bit overboard. She laughed lightly, "Poor Rachel. Was she scared?"

It was good, having this conversation with Quinn. She had requested, before, that no one visit her, but she was realising more and more that she missed her normal life – and that included normal people, and her friends. It included Quinn. And maybe, perhaps, even people like Rachel Berry. But she wouldn't say that out loud, ever.

"She sure was! In the end, she even stopped babbling, and she didn't say much at all during the whole Glee lesson. It was hilarious to see," was Quinn's comment on the situation. Lighthearted; fun. Exactly what she'd missed for far too long.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. And then, Quinn turned a bit more serious, "I don't think you need her incessant babbling right now, do you?"

Brittany sighed. It had been so nice, trying to block out reality, but it had a way of catching up with her. "No. My head hurts," she told her and drifted off of a moment, looking at the walls of her hospital room. It was always the walls. Sometimes, it felt like a cell.

She saw some of the charts which were still up in her room. One, black letters on white paper, laminated so it wouldn't get damaged, read: **What happened?**

The one directly below said: **You had a car accident. You have had a brain injury.** Big, black letters, like the top row of the optometry charts you had to read at the doctor's to know if you needed glasses. If only her problems had such a simple solution. Quickly _,_ she averted her eyes.

Quinn was patiently waiting for her to say something else.

"I don't like how Rachel treats Santana," she said, carefully sounding out the words. "She's really hard to-, uh," Brittany trailed off, struggling to describe what she thought of the self-centered Glee club member. "Like, when you have to listen," she clarified, pointing to her right ear, tapping slightly at the outer shell. "So people don't get pissed off? That thing," she told her, gravely.

"Tolerate?" Quinn offered, amused.

Befuddled, Brittany asked,"Tolerate what?" She couldn't quite follow.

For a short moment, the head Cheerio looked dumbfounded, her eyes wide, but soon enough, she schooled her features into a neutral expression. "Tolerating Rachel and her bossiness, it's hard sometimes."

Brittany nodded, totally getting it. "Oh, yeah. It is." She looked around, trying to recall where the conversation had started out but it kept coming up blank. Instead, she looked down into her lap.

"Thanks for the card, Q. It's lovely," she added, fiddling with the 'Get Well' card in her hands. It was a cute little thing, very colourful and it even had a unicorn in the middle of it, but she couldn't bring herself to open it and read what Quinn had written inside. She'd do it once she was alone.

Quinn smiled at her. "Of course, Britt. You know, we were really worried about you, about- ," she started and trailed off mid-sentence.

The blonde just nodded. "Yeah, I know," she said, and then looked away. It was still difficult to accept people's sympathy – or pity. It felt like a slap in the face, at times.

Suddenly, she felt a hand taking her own and holding it tightly. It wasn't actually unpleasant at all, quite the contrary. She appreciated it a lot. Besides Santana, Quinn was one of her closest friends. She regretted not spending more time with her when she could. Back then, as Cheerios. When Quinn got pregnant with Beth.

And now? Who knew if she'd ever-

"I missed you," she said in a small voice.

Quinn looked at her with so much compassion, it was hard to bear. She almost looked away again, but she resisted the urge. She needed to feel the connection, she needed to feel close to her friend.

"Me too," the head cheerleader answered, hoarsely. It was such a crass contrast compared to her usual soft voice. Where Santana's voice had a raw raspy quality, Quinn's was usually the touch of a feather. Apparently, this was what having a life-changing accident did to the people around you – it made their voices do funny things. It happened with her mother a lot, too.

She didn't even notice how it happened, but the next thing she knew, she was being hugged tightly. Tentatively, she put her own arms around her friend, and allowed herself to relish in the warmth Quinn's proximity brought. It wasn't just a physical thing – it was way more important than that. It meant, I will be here for you. It said, I have your back. It also let her know: I won't leave you behind.

"I'm sorry, Quinn," she whispered into her neck. "I am sorry I left you. When you needed me. And us, with Beth. I was no good friend."

The arms around her tightened even further. "I'm just glad you're here now, Brittany. When we didn't know-" she had to clear her throat before continuing, "Santana was a mess. We all were, but I've never seen her like that."

For a moment, silence stretched out between them.

"Quinn?" she asked timidly.

"Mh?" Being so close, Brittany felt more than heard her friend's humming response.

She swallowed, trying to calm her sudden nerves. "I'm in love with Santana."

Quinn let out a little chuckle. "I know, Brittany." Quinn's hand was ghosting soothingly over her back, "I know you are."

Brittany nodded. It figured; if anyone knew, it would definitely be her. After all, thanks to Sue Sylvester and the Cheerios, there was hardly any week the three of them hadn't been hanging out together.

"I want to get better. And then I will tell her," she promised – and meant it with everything she had. It was a promise to herself, to Quinn, and to the world.


	4. Submerged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while!  
> This story has been on my mind lately, and I hope there's still people out there interested in Brittana and this particular adventure.  
> I don't want to abandon this story - I have most of the story already planned out. It's just a matter of finding the time and energy to sit down to put it to paper (figuratively speaking).
> 
> If you're still reading: thank you.

She'd just woken up from a nap. Disoriented, she took a look around her. Judging from the light coming in through the window, it was probably early afternoon. She had no clue how long she'd been asleep; probably only an hour, tops. Searching her memory for indicators, she remembered talking to Santana but she wasn't quite sure whether that had really happened only a little while ago or not. Time was the most peculiar thing since she'd woken up from the long sleep, as she called it. It was a stream; not tangible, ever-flowing. 

It took her a moment before she could feel her body. It was a real light bulb moment: Her bladder was uncomfortably tense. She really needed to go to the bathroom. Looking around for the nurse call button, she was stumped. It was nowhere to be found. Where had she last seen it? Nothing – it was like looking at a blank page, trying to read words that never were there in the first place. 

Brittany knew she had no time to waste. It was really, really urgent. Still hesitating, she crossed her legs tightly, as if that would keep it in indefinitely. Panic started to grasp at her, pulling her under; her thoughts became even more jumbled than they were before. A solution, quickly, something that would solve this issue before she couldn't stop it; already feeling how she'd not manage it much longer. 

She felt sweat starting to collect beneath her armpits as the deep fear of loosing control over her bladder sent shivers through her. She needed to get up and go, she decided. It was only just a few steps away, anyway. 

Hoisting herself up the bed rail, she managed to pull herself up into a sitting position with barely any issues at all. She could do this. Getting herself out of bed proved to be a challenge but she succeeded. With her legs planted firmly onto the ground, she took a step forward. Then another. And another. 

Brittany bit her lip. She could feel her legs starting to tremble and when she frantically searched for something to hold onto, she could only see her wheelchair a few inches away from her. Arms stretched to the max, she tried to reach for it. 

It was as if she was suspended in mid-air; everything slowed down to the point where the fraction of a second felt like an eternity stretched wide. She wondered if this was what floating around in space might feel like. It was a nice feeling, not being bound by the constraints of time and space. Maybe she could become an astronaut one day and do this for a living? Suddenly, eternity snapped; time found its flow again and caught up.

As a yell of pain reached her own ears, Brittany became aware of the linoleum flooring invading her field of vision. Tears spilled from her eyes as she felt a searing pain in her right wrist. Her whole body jarred from the fall, she had to focus on not passing out as little currents of sharp electricity stabbed into her arm. 

“Brittany? Oh my god, what happened?” she heard a voice from far away calling out. It was getting more and more difficult to stay in the moment and not let herself be swept away by the darkness wanting to claim her. A pained groan escaped her. She was dizzy, and she had to keep very still to not further upset her balance. The room around her was spinning already. 

She felt a pair of strong arms around her shoulders as somebody helped her navigate her body into a sitting position on the floor. When she looked up, she saw that it was Santana kneeling close to her, her arms still at her shoulders as if to keep her steady. 

Then, Santana's face appeared in front of hers. “Britt? Are you alright?”

Once the first wave of pain had washed over her and retreated again,replacing the sharp sting and leaving more of a dull ache in its place, she could think again. A worried look was etched onto the Latina's face, she noticed. She looked quite tense, a vertical line appearing between her brows, burrowed deeply into her skin. Brittany realised something else, too. The pressure in her pelvis had vanished and the ground they were sitting on – kneeling on, in Santana's case – was wet. 

Embarrassment surged through her like flames in a bonfire; a beacon of shame, heating up her cheeks. Pressing her lips together, she just silently shook her head. 

“Come on, let's get you back up onto the bed.” Santana's voice was level and so calm that it was unnerving. How could she pretend that everything was fine?

“No,” she said, her reluctance obvious. Her head was lowered, and she was keeping her stare fixed at the damp spot adorning her sweatpants, now sporting a darker hue of grey than this morning. She couldn't look the other girl in the eyes, burning with shame as she was. 

“The chair, then? Alright. I'll just-” she said, interrupting herself, already pulling her up as if she weighed nothing. With a little puff, she lowered her into the wheelchair sitting nearby. It really had been so close...

The space she'd just been occupying was marked by a distinct puddle of yellowish liquid; the amber shade a stark contrast against the white of the linoleum, making it stand out even more. She couldn't tear her eyes away from it. It made her want to cry from the deep humiliation coursing through her. 

She felt Santana's hands pulling at her face, trying to make her look at her as she kneeled in front of her. “Let's get you into some fresh clothes, okay?”

When Brittany finally unglued her gaze from the floor, she locked eyes with her. Brown pools of sympathy were zooming in on her, and she felt herself snap. 

Trying her best to pry those warm hands off her, as well as she could with her aching wrist and pounding head, she yelled, “Stop! I'm not a little kid anymore. I can do it my-self! I don't need you. Stop treating me like a freakin' kid!” 

Agitated as she was, she was stumbling and tripping all over her words but that did nothing to take away from the forceful anger behind them. 

“I'm not, I mean-” Santana started, baffled, clearly surprised at the blonde's outburst. “I just want to help, Britt.” 

“I don't want your help!” 

Santana tried to take her hand, but Brittany snatched it away brusquely before she could make contact to her skin. Apparently understanding that comforting gestures wouldn't be well-received, Santana held up her hands in surrender. “Look, I get it. You're in pain right now, and it sucks. But I'm just here to help, alright?” she asked in a soothing tone which just set Brittany off even more. 

“No! I' mad at you! Get angry with me! Yell at me! Just.. just treat me like a normal person! Please, please, I'm a normal person. Please,” she implored, desperation tinging her voice. 

Lowering her own voice to a whisper, Santana tried again to comfort her friend, “Of course you are. But everyone needs some help sometimes, so let me help you. I can bring you some clothes and get the nurse.” 

Shaking her head frantically, making the world spin on its axis, Brittany felt more than heard the next words coming out of her own mouth, “Go away, Santana! Just go! I don't want you here. Go away!” 

“Hey, calm down and listen to me, Brittany. How bad is the pain? We need to get you checked out after the fall, in case you hurt yourself or something, okay? So let me help you and we can get all of this fixed,” the dark-haired girl insisted. 

“Fuck you, Santana! Just get the fuck out, right now!”

Brittany was yelling so loudly she didn't realize her own volume until her ears started feeling tight and fluttery, distorting the sound of her own voice. Instinctively, her hands clutched at the shells of her ears as if to protect them from the barrage of sound she was inflicting upon herself. 

She saw a flash of shock and hurt pass over Santana's face; saw the way the girl pressed her lips together and glanced away. A hint of guilt blossomed in her chest but it was as if she couldn't control the absolute force with which her emotions were crashing over her, compelling her to act like this. As if someone had taken over her volition and she was merely a puppet; a pawn in a game of hurt. A rigged game, really, for there was nothing to be won – for anyone. 

Heaving a sigh, Santana stood and, with one last look to Brittany, mumbled, “See you later, Britts.” Then, she turned on her heel and left the room. 

Her absence felt like all the energy had been sucked out of the room, leaving Brittany battling an inner emptiness more cutting than ever. She looked after her for what might have been hours, secretly hoping, but it was in vain. Santana had left, for real, she realised. 

Only then did Brittany allow herself to cry, openly; unashamedly. She sobbed with such fierceness that she didn’t even recognize the sounds coming out of her; instead they felt foreign, her gasps merely resembling broken inspirations. 

That's how a nurse found her a couple of minutes later. Santana had asked her to, before going home, she said. Brittany wasn't sure if she would ever resurface from the avalanche of guilt burying her deeply within her own shame. 

* * *

After the nurse had helped her clean herself up and change into clothes that weren't soiled, she was wheeled into the radiology unit. As she sat in her wheelchair, waiting for her turn to get her wrist x-rayed and assessed for damage, she couldn't stop thinking about the pain on Santana's face. 

The pain which she had caused, and no one else. It was a hurt that the other girl definitely didn't deserve – actually, quite the contrary. When thinking about about her, she couldn't help but be reminded of everything Santana stood for: loyalty; a fierce need to protect and an unending belief in her. While Brittany herself had long since stopped thinking she could do anything at all, there was Santana; thinking that she could do everything she set her mind to – and probably even more. 

Intoxicating and inexplicably addictive, there was not a moment in time where Brittany hadn't loved Santana. Or, if there was, she certainly couldn't remember it. In her mind, Santana was just... everything. Incredible beauty that was so much more than just skin deep – it was a beauty that seeped into every nook and cranny of her very being. Santana had what one would call a beautiful soul, Brittany thought. And for reasons she would probably never manage to fully comprehend, she'd chosen to share herself with her. 

Memories, lost but found again, swirled through her head. Mostly just flashes of moments that she managed to grapple from her broken brain long enough to catch a glimpse of black hair, the fleeting impression of a soft smile. Directed at her; always only at her. 

The touch of lips ghosting over her own, uniting them in a kiss that spoke of things neither of them were strong enough to whisper into existence. Breathing to the sound of their unvoiced feelings; their tastes mingling as they opened themselves up to one another. 

Flashes of Santana's hitched gasps, bittersweet a sound; words tumbling over her full lips in complete and unabashed surrender. Utterances, perhaps reserved only for her ears, but not the right ones; not the ones telling her how deeply she felt inside. Instead, whole worlds lay hidden beneath the words she used. Brittany would hold her and watch her choke on the ones she could not bring herself to say, kissing Santana until she could breathe again. 

The deep ache in her chest momentarily distracting her from the dull pain in her wrist, she was startled when she suddenly felt the room start moving again. Stuttering, start and stop, and suddenly everything around her was spinning again. Automatically, her arms shot out to try and keep herself from falling over until she realized that she was still sitting safely wedged between the wheels. Cradling her head in her hands, she tried to keep herself together.

“It's our turn now,” the nurse said from behind her, already wheeling her towards the direction of the examination room. She already felt the memories trickling away – like sand in an hourglass, every second taking with it grain after grain, her thoughts dwindled with every passing moment until all she felt was a buzzing emptiness take over her senses. 

* * *

The brand-new compression wrap encasing her right wrist was making her incarcerated skin itch. It was difficult to resist the irritating urge to start scratching but there was nothing to be done about that. She'd just have to tolerate this uneasy feeling – it wasn't the first uncomfortable sensation she'd had in the past few weeks anyway. Far from it, to be honest – this was nothing, compared to the rest of what her life had become. 

The pain? It didn't even bother her that much anymore. She'd grown accustomed to being and feeling physical pain.   
  
At least, she had been super lucky, according to the nice radiologist who had taken the time to explain her x-rays to her. If she was honest, she'd pretty much started zoning out when he started using terms like “proximal” and “distal” even though she actually did get that the longish white parts he called “radius” and “ulna” were supposed to be her arm bones. Keeping track of the man's explanations he lectured her about while pointing at some hazy contrasts of blueish and white structures on the radiograph proved to be impossible, though. 

It was all just a jumbled mess of technical terms, one sounding more incomprehensible than the other, which made her feel stupid beyond belief because she'd forget more than half of what he said a second after he did. It was as if the words didn't even register in her brain; getting instead repelled as soon as they reached her ears. 

According to the doctor, she had not broken any bones nor dislocated anything, although he suspected that her ligaments might have sustained some sort of damage which she needed to be careful about. Basically, she had a badly sprained wrist that was currently on its way to growing double its size with all the swelling. To allow the ligaments to rest and heal, she had been prescribed a splint for the next two to three weeks and strict immobilisation for the time being. 

It was only when she'd gotten back to her hospital room that she became aware that “full immobilisation” probably meant a huge setback for her the rest of her recovery. How was she supposed to work on regaining some of the functions she'd lost when she couldn't even move her dominant hand? And how had she not thought about that before when she had actually had the chance to ask the doctor about it? 

It most likely didn't help that the whole time, her head been throbbing from the fall and the stress of her altercation with Santana. The worst part about that was that she only kind of remembered what she'd said to her best friend. She just knew it hadn't been pretty. She could still hear her own yelling like a distant echo resounding in her ears. 

What if Santana finally had enough? What if she never came back? The thoughts were worrying her but she tried not to let herself wallow in self-pity too much. Brittany knew that it would do her no good, keeping herself thinking about all the bad things. She wanted to think of nice things, too. She found herself staring at the charts on her walls again. 

There was a new addition to the collection of charts: **You fell and sprained your wrist. You need to move it as little as possible so it can heal properly.**

It was a hastily handwritten note, although the person who wrote it had been careful to make the litters big and easily legible. As if she could forget about that; she almost wanted to chuckle when she saw it. She was sure the pounding and swelling would make sure to hammer it into her brain. Stupid cards, she thought. 

Until an idea hit her, and a genuine smile started to form on her face. She allowed herself to get excited over her plan, and she kept repeating it over and over in her head, hoping to hold onto it until she could do something about it. 

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._

Finally, she was right on track: the next time a nurse came to check on her, she asked him to write a few things down for her. He looked at her with an unreadable expression before he nodded and pulled out a piece of paper, pen at the ready. 

She poured her heart out, not caring what the man might think of her. The only thing on her mind was getting the right words out, quickly, before they faded. The nurse never commented, not on the content and not on the difficulty she had, struggling with every word before getting it out, and just scribbled down what she wanted instead. 

Wordlessly, he handed her the note. She thanked him and clutched the paper close to her chest when he left after deciding she was okay for the time being. Once she heard the door close behind him, she peeked at his handwriting, and hope bloomed in her heart. 

It read:

_I'm sorry. I can't express how grateful I am to have you. Thanks for being there for me. You hold my hand when everything else is spinning and out of control and there's nothing I can do but hold onto you. I'm sorry for getting mad. I can't remember why or how but I know I don't want to lose you. I'm sorry for hurting you._

_Note to self: Tell Santana, if she comes back to visit. _

_You had a fight._   
_She is probably mad and sad. Apologise._   
_You were really, really mean to her. Not cool._   
_Don't do it again._

Perhaps, she would remember. Most likely, though, these words of regret and apology would get lost somewhere deep inside her, far away from where they belonged: spoken out loud, to Santana, acknowledging her feelings. 

Just in case, she wanted to be prepared and not forget about this. Just in case that Santana, hoping against all hope, decided to come back to her at least one more time. 

Two days later, according to the calendar on the wall which she kept checking, over and over again, she was still waiting. 


End file.
